I removed a benign melanoma I had, kicked it’s ass. I won but I’m wounded right now with an inch wide stab wound. I don’t like needles so I cauterized the wound instead. I felt like I was removing a bullet lodged in my back. Honestly, I just wanted to drive a sterilized pocket knife into my back. Watching everyone else stab each other in the back is worse than doing it to yourself. But I lived. I always fucking live. They will too. But my wound is flesh, theirs of metal.
I believe I’ve come to terms with my honesty. There are lots of things I want buried of course, but the fact I’m alive means I can joke about it. Maliciousness can come and go. But when they leave, a tiny bit of it stays with you. Dark is much simpler to be within than light is. Only the strong-willed persevere and find the light. It ain’t me, babe, but I couldn’t care less.
Everyone has a chance to win me over. And I try not to have opinions because they’re often jokes to lighten the morale. I try to have jokes instead. Good things happen, bad things happen; something always happens. It’s illogical to fret over the things that make us sweat. Once you start taking something seriously, something you can’t crack a joke about, that something matters. You’ll find yourself arguing and stressing over something you’ll find trivial later. So give us a joke. I won’t care if it’s a bad joke. I’ll know you’re just looking for a smile. Let everyone else scream, as if we need anymore of that noise, anyway.
The kettle of mortality and birth can be spilled by the slightest misstep or exaggeration. Are your bounds of flesh or of metal. A Ouija board spirit named Gomez said that to Marina and I. Finally, I’m no longer a ghost.